Chant of the Forest Pilgrims

Ancient Ilvanian chant, written before the first records

and passed orally from generation to generation

Beneath these shadows

May you find yourself again

Speak only truth

Take only what you claim

What you do not understand

Be it foe or friend

Turn not your back on it

Or lost will be your tune

****

Let your aim be truth

And what you seek

Beneath these shadows

Will find you

Be not hasty

Tread softly here, friend

Be at peace

Breathe deeply this air in

If you come in peace

Then here you may find kin

*****

Beneath these shadows

No fear shall overtake you

If truth you speak

Then truth will find you

Never turn your back

On what you do not understand

Never close your eyes

Or you will begin again

Hold what you seek in mind

Let it lead you to the truth

Beneath these shadows

May you find refuge

**********

Don’t look down.

It was Azerian’s most important rule of climbing. Don’t look down unless both your feet are on solid ground. Lyssia had broken this rule only once, the first time he had brought her here. Thankfully, the fall had been short and only cost her a scraped knee.

She was nearing the ground, but she wasn't sure how near she was when she slipped.

She had just spent several minutes jumping from one intact piece of staircase to another inside the tower and had come to another opening in the wall that she would have to climb through. The stone crumbled beneath her foot as she tried to find purchase on the opening's lip, and she tumbled out and into Azerian's waiting arms.

She had only been three or four feet off the ground. She could have jumped if she'd stopped to check the distance, but she was thankful that Azerian was there to break her fall.

"Oomph!" Azerian cried as her weight sent them both tumbling to the ground. A ripping sound rent the air.

Lyssia slapped a hand over his mouth as she heard their uncle cry out, "What was that?"

Lyssia glanced down in shock at her dress. She had been permitted to wear pants so she would be able to sit astride her horse during the hunt, but she had been instructed to wear a dress long enough to keep them hidden.

"Ohhh hoo ohhh…" Azerian tried to hold in his laughter as he stood and brushed himself off. His wide eyes were locked on the tear in her dress that nearly reached her hip.

Stiff panels almost the exact same shade of green as the rest of the dress had been added to the back and sides by a careful seamstress. The effect made for a wider and heavier skirt that could be draped into place while riding. They had also made it more difficult to climb, but she had chosen not to notice the extra weight. If she had said anything, it would have just caused both boys to laugh at her.

Lyssia didn't feel like laughing. She felt like crying.

Seeing her so upset, Azerian swallowed his guffaw and offered her his hand. "Are you alright? You're not hurt, are you?"

Lyssia tried to copy his whisper, her lips barely moving as she replied, "No. But I'll have to add climbing to the list of things I can't do."

"Ah, you can do it. You just need more practice. We'll make it a priority once you know who is gone."

Lyssia held up her hand to silence him and fingered the torn edge of her dress. It had split right along the inside edge of the stiff side panel. How was she going to explain this?

She couldn't.

An idea sprang to life in her mind, but it was only half-formed when she set one foot against the tower, took hold of the panel piece that was draped over her other leg, and yanked down. The cloth held under her hands. She couldn’t get the right angle, but Azerian caught on quickly enough, and with her pushing and him pulling, they were able to make a second tear in her skirts. It wasn’t straight, and it wasn’t pretty, but it would do.

Loosening her leather belt, Lyssia flipped up the front section of her skirt and rolled it over the belt to create a short panel in front. Her pants were now visible for all to see, but she was hoping that the difference would not be that noticeable when she was mounted. Lyssia had seen Carryn wear a similar style of dress over riding pants. It offered greater movement, and no one minded much what she wore.

Hopefully, Lyssia's attempt at the style would look intentional.

"Your father's not going to like that," Azerian said, still trying to keep his words from being carried toward the dais.

It wouldn't matter in a minute. Roakev and his father were approaching to investigate the noises. Roakev was slowing him down with questions about the hunt as if they had not gone over the details a dozen times already today, and Eindre seemed to be getting impatient.

“But which direction will we be moving the herd?”

“If you’re asking me that now, you are not prepared. I expected more from you today.”

“Father, I am prepared. What I meant to ask was…where is the herd stationed?”

“If you were with them hunters, you would know that.”

Lyssia reached up a hand to brush the stray hairs that had escaped her braid, straightened Azerian’s jacket, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "Yes, but think of the alternative," she whispered in his ear.

"Alright, I will." He led her forward just far enough so they would be visible from the dais steps. Then he paused, scrunched his face in thought, and let out a short bark of laughter. "Thank you. I needed that."

"Mmmhm...Your mask!"

Azerian pulled his leather hunting mask out of the pouch attached to his belt and slipped it into place as Lyssia turned toward the forest of towers. Her eyes darted back and forth amongst the towers. Where---?

"I'm glad to see you enjoying yourselves."

"Uncle Eindre! You found us!" Azerian exclaimed cheerfully, spinning them both around to face him.

Lyssia squeezed his arm tight, her head reeling. “We were just heading back to join the search.”

“No need. The Elken herd has been located.”

“Good. Then shall we…?” Azerian started to lead Lyssia toward the horses, but Eindre blocked their path.

“Lyssia, your father told me he wasn't worried when you disappeared. He had hoped you found a tree nearby to rest beneath while you saw to your studies. I told him that perhaps you three had snuck away alone to practice your archery skills. I think he would have accepted either answer over the truth.”

“The truth... “ Lyssia held her breath.

“Climbing the tower. What were you thinking, Lyssia?”

“C-c-climbing?” Azerian stepped in front of her, spread his arms wide, and rolled his wrists.

He looked like he was about to have a fit, but Lyssia knew he was doing that thing he did when he wanted to draw attention to himself. She wasn’t sure he was even aware that he did it. All together, it was a rather effective display.

“Or practicing her recitation of the Lays of History atop the dais of whispers before the towers of her ancestors?”

“Do you think the Kongr will believe that?” Eindre demanded with a raised brow.

“Do you?”

Eindre leveled his stoniest gaze at Azerian. Lyssia inched away, keeping her eyes on the pair to see who would blink first. Finally, Eindre shook his head. He made a motion that looked like he was wiping mud off his hands, wiping this whole situation from his hands.

“Never lose that spirit. I would never wish that,” he said, pointing to Azerian and Lyssia in turn then motioning toward his son. “I just wish you could learn when to harness all that energy. Today is important. This hunt is not just for you. It affects---”

A trio of groans echoed in the forest of towers, which meant that Lyssia was not alone in her thoughts. She glanced back at Roakev. He wasn’t even looking at them. His attention was on the horses, but she felt the unhappiness rolling off him like a great wave of black cloud that gathered in anticipation of a storm.

“Uncle, I understand.”

“If you understood, you would not even put yourself at such a risk. Lyssia...Drottine…you can’t keep doing this. And you...” His hand snaked out faster than a snake’s strike and fastened around Azerian’s arm, and he gave his nephew a shake. “...need to keep the Drottine safe. Not drag her away from her duties and those who would protect her.”

“I don’t need guards out here,” Lyssia murmured, but her words carried and made Eindre pause. “I need---”

A horn sounded - low and sonorous - in the distance.

Lyssia’s heart stuttered at the sound, all her unease replaced with a singular cord of nervous purpose. She turned to her uncle, waiting for him to confirm the meaning of the call.

“They’ve gathered the herd. They’re calling all archers in for the hunt. Drottine, I await your order.”

“Then I say...to the hunt!” Lyssia sprinted for her horse, Azerian and Eindre fast on her heels. She pulled up short, ignoring Roakev’s hand to reach back for her uncle’s. He swung her up into the saddle with barely a pause in his own stride.

Lyssia felt the nameless horse’s muscles bunch beneath her and tensed, but he calmed himself, and Lyssia smiled, trailing an appreciative hand along his side. He was a Dubkir and a beauty. A gift from her father last year.

Roakev had received a horse as well, but Azerian had refused the offer to claim his own Dubkir. He could work harder to fit in, but after three years, he still took every opportunity to stand out. His horse was nice enough. Young, swift, and a fearless jumper. But he was no substitute for a Dubkir.

Dubkir horses were compact enough to weave through trees and fast enough to chase down a bounding briar hare. They were smart enough to ride without leads, resilient enough to be turned out to pasture in the winter months, and strong enough to face down a herd of Elken. They were a part of the land itself, bred to survive and born for the hunt.

It had taken her months to teach herself to ride in the old style - light saddle, double pads, no bit, bridle, or lead. She had thought in that time, the horse’s name would simply come to her. But it had not.

Roakev had no trouble naming his horse. It had taken him less than a day to declare that the ebony-coated stallion was as glorious as Sikurd, the famed warhorse of the first Kongr of Ilvana.

It was a good fit. The horse’s coat shone so splendidly in the sun that Lyssia could imagine songs being sung about him. He was a proud creature, more so than Lyssia’s mud-brown stead, who seemed more stubborn than proud, more handsome than glorious. But she thought him perfect, and he deserved the perfect name.

For a year, she had trained for this. No, for longer than that. Since that moment three years ago when Tirne of Dunival had handed her a hunting bow, she had put it in her mind to train for this day. One of those Elke being held for the hunt belonged to her. She should have found it herself. She should have marked it already, if only in her mind. But it was too late for regrets.

Lyssia had promised that today would be about making herself proud. She wasn’t doing this for her father or anyone else. But…

How proud would he be if she succeeded in bringing down an Elke in her first hunt?

Turning to Azerian and Roakev, she searched for the same excitement in their eyes. “Ready?”

Their answering smiles - one assured and steady, the other gleaming with a devilish light - were answer enough.

“To the hunt!” She stood up in her stirrup, leaned her weight forward, and whistled her intent. Her handsome Dubkir surged into action, moving with all the swiftness of the wind in the trees above toward the sound of the hunting horn.....

**********